


Touch-Me-Not

by on_the_wing



Category: Starfighter (Comic), Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Deception, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sensory Sensitivity, Spoilers, Using Appropriate Amounts of Lube, sex ambushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-04-12 15:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/pseuds/on_the_wing
Summary: After participating in an odd foursome with their respective crushes, Praxis and Deimos develop a strange and uncomfortable connection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the chapter 2 extras, although it ends differently here.
> 
> I have no idea how well-known this is, but a touch-me-not is a plant (Mimosa pudica) with delicate leaves that curl inward or droop to protect themselves when you touch them.

He should be happy. This was what he’d wanted, right? He’d never really thought that Abel would give him a second glance, much less invite him into his bedr—well, storeroom.  
  
Praxis looked down at the delicate scarred mouth clamped around him, sucking blissfully if a bit sloppily, and felt miles away. Who was this man lying naked below him, transfixed on the cross that was Cain, flanked by two sinners?  
  
_The name Deimos even sounds like the penitent thief, Dimas. I doubt he’s repentant, but at least he’s kneeling. I guess that makes me the impenitent thief? I always feel guilty, but how penitent can I really be—just look what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be doing this. None of us should._  
  
He stroked his savior’s pale downy hair, something he’d been longing to do for months, but couldn’t really feel its texture through the glove of his flight suit. His hand, black and glossy, looked alien, almost menacing, like the exoskeleton of an insect. _We’re so far from home. Nothing’s human here, no one’s watching over us. We’re out here with the aliens, the bug people, we’re starting to become bugs ourselves. We fight and mate and die but we don’t grow anything, we don’t make anything, we don’t solve anything._  
  
He looked away, then further away, not wanting to see Cain either—that snarling face focused and almost tender—but what he did see was hardly more comforting. A couple of feet away, Deimos’ smooth black head bobbed, his gloved fingers busy. He was an alien too, a sable insect in a shell, a mantis dipping its head to feed on its still struggling prey. That careful, deliberate devouring made Praxis shiver with a feeling he couldn’t name.    
  
But he could see the human face peering out from all the glistening black, the familiar features solemn and intent as he worked. Praxis winced at the sudden scrape of Abel’s teeth, and felt a stab of guilt at the thought: _Deimos looks like he’s better at it_.  
  
_Of course he’s doing better_ , he scolded himself. _He has both hands free and a comfortable angle and no one’s doing anything to distract him._  
  
He wondered what Deimos’ mouth felt like, and his hips jerked involuntarily. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying to float away. _Don’t think about that, why would you think about that. Don’t think at all._ But his body was pulling him back in, forcing him to focus on the growing heat and pressure, the imminent explosive loss, loss of himself, love leads to loss but he couldn’t stop reaching for it, he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t keep it inside so all he could do was wrench himself away so he wouldn’t soil Abel’s sweet face, wrench away his eyes so he wouldn’t soil Abel with the corruption of his gaze.  
  
As he turned he saw Deimos, saw Deimos seeing him, his pale clear eyes looking straight at him, at all his shame. There was no kindness in those eyes, but there was no disgust or horror either. He simply looked, and then bent down again to his work.  
  
Watching felt invasive, but leaving felt rude. Praxis did up his trousers as slowly as possible and stepped back a little, trying neither to stare nor to avert his eyes completely, until the passion of Abel came to its inevitable conclusion. Deimos handled Abel with clinical precision, pulling his mouth off and flipping the navigator’s erection away from himself at exactly the right moment. He stayed perfectly neat and clean, a stark contrast to Cain and Abel’s heaving, sweating, pungent nakedness.  
  
Eventually they separated, and Cain and Deimos gathered up a shaky, boneless Abel in a profane pieta. They propped him up in a sitting position, and Cain fussed over his navigator in a way Praxis could barely believe, wiping him down and petting his hair and nuzzling his face. He felt a stab of jealousy so sharp he almost clutched his stomach, and he couldn’t tell which one of them he envied more. _Stop it_ , he told himself, and glanced at Deimos.  
  
Deimos’ face was placid and his form casually posed, but the hand furthest away from Cain and Abel clenched the edge of the crate as if he might float away into space without it.  
  
Praxis cleared his throat and sat down next to him, laying a tentative hand on his upper arm. “You’re the only one who didn’t come. Do you…want to?”  
  
Deimos froze, eyes wide.  
  
“I just thought—it didn’t seem fair.” He removed his hand and leaned away.  
  
Cain snorted. “What, Cyclops, you gonna bend over for him? You wanna be his bitch?”  
  
“Cain! Stop it. He has a point.” Abel looked at Deimos. “Do you want to?”  
  
“That’s not what he’s here for,” Cain said.  
  
“Well, what _is_ he here for then?”  
  
“What, you didn’t notice him sucking your dick? Oi, Myshonok, where are you go—tch.”  
  
Praxis frowned at Deimos’ stiff retreating back.  
  
\--  
  
The next evening Praxis was walking back from starfighter maintenance, tired, grubby, and ready for dinner, when a sudden tug on his elbow threw him off balance. Deimos’ blank, pretty face looked up at him. Maybe not as blank as usual. Maybe a little fiercer. “Oh, hello. What—oh!” He stumbled sideways into a nearby storeroom, propelled by yanking hands. “What are you doing?”  
      
Deimos slammed the door shut behind them and shoved Praxis up against a narrow piece of bare wall. He hadn’t bothered to turn the light on, and the room was blacker than space, except for the thin slivers of light falling through the cracks around the eclipsing door.  
  
“Deimos— _Deimos_.” A gloved hand was cupping and rubbing between his legs, and he heard a slithery thump as the other fighter fell to his knees. “I really wasn’t fishing for—oh god—um—random…sex…yesterday….I just….I really just wanted to know if you wanted to—well I guess that technically sounds like I was, but I—I mean, it just seemed like everyone else got something out of it but you and that— _ohhh_ —that didn’t seem right—fuck, Deimos you really don’t have to do that. Although. If you really want to— _nnh_ I am—not going to complain….”  
  
Deimos pulled his mouth off. “Shut up,” he rasped.  
  
“Okay,” said Praxis. That wet silky mouth swallowed him down again, those careful fingers stroked, and a bright flare of pain blossomed in his hip as the nails of the other hand bit in. He exhaled, submitting, and instinctively felt for Deimos’ hair.

Deimos knocked his hand away.

“Sorry. I wasn’t going to—sorry.” He plastered his hands to the door and drew in a long, shuddering breath, wondering why everything he did was wrong, why contempt was so sexy, how it happened that he’d been given this inexplicable gift twice in two days by two beautiful men, once in the light by a bright-haired navigator, once in the dark by a black-haired fighter.  
  
Praxis’ hips instinctively rocked forward, and the nails dug in harder. He whined before he could think, and heard a brief chuckle from below. His breath was coming faster and harsher and he needed something to hold onto, he was clawing the wall, legs shaking. The dark was comforting but smothering, he wanted to see, he wanted to touch Deimos too, so badly. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to focus on, nothing to do but lean against the wall and let himself be consumed. He imagined that Deimos was actually devouring him, a monster in the dark. How much did he want? How much would be left? Did he even want to survive? Maybe not. _Take my body, take my mind, take my name. I don’t want any of them. Do what you will._  
  
The pull was too strong and he was afraid. Afraid that this wouldn’t bring peace, or oblivion, or death, or anything else he wanted. That he’d have bared himself for nothing, worse than nothing. _Get a grip_ , he told himself. _You’re in a closet getting a surprise blowjob. How is this a bad thing?_  
  
_Because it hurts. Because it feels good. Because I let it. I’m not allowed to feel good. It hurts. Feeling good hurts, feeling hurts._ The feeling rose up in a flood and he was panting, whimpering, moaning out loud, suddenly not caring who heard him. “Fuck, fuck I’m—Deimos I’m—”  
  
He wanted to say he was dying, but that would only be true in the metaphorical sense.  
  
He floated down like flecks of ash, sliding down the wall to land in a heap on the floor. Deimos was only a faint, still silhouette in front of him. Praxis struggled to pull air into his lungs. “Um, thank you. That was—that was amazing. Do you want me to…do the same? For you?”  
  
A short scoffing hiss was the only answer. The shadow leaped up, the crack of light burst open.  
  
“Deimos? Wait—I—”  
  
Deimos slipped through, an inky shadow slicing into the rectangle of brilliant white. The door whirred shut and darkness consumed him.  
  
Praxis slumped back down and hugged his knees, trying to hold himself together. He couldn’t afford to lose any more pieces, and it was all coming apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Praxis, you're such a drama queen. I promise you he calms down later.
> 
> This story came out of my massive frustration at the almost-Praxmos in the chapter 2 extras. SO CLOSE. Like, two or three feet away. How, I wondered, could I make that connection happen?


	2. Chapter 2

“You what?” Cain pried Deimos’ lips from his ear and scowled. “Myshonok, you can’t just blow him and then sneer in his face when he offers to blow you back. He’s gonna get suspicious, and that takes away the whole point of you blowing him in the first place.”  
  
Deimos glared at the floor, a scorching heat rising in his face.  
  
“At least let him give you a handjob or something. And a kiss or two if he wants it. Blowjobs are too impersonal. He’s gotta think he’s doing something for you too. Remember, that’s what he was talking about before. You don’t have to marry him, but you gotta make a connection, understand?” Cain lifted his chin, peering into his eyes.  
  
Deimos felt his lips parting unbidden, but he took a deep breath and nodded.  
  
Cain’s hand dropped, and he sat back, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I don’t know why you’re being such a bitch about this,” he complained. “You know it’s your fault he needs distracting in the first place. And I thought you liked him. You _did_ pick him out for Abelfest, after all.”  
  
“It wasn’t my idea this time,” he muttered.  
  
“You think it was _my_ idea to fuck Abel?”  
  
Deimos’ eyes flashed upward.  
  
“We all have to do things it wasn’t our idea to do. That’s just life. And hey, it won’t be so bad with Praxis—don’t look at me like that! Sure, he’s an uptight prick who thinks he’s better than the rest of us. But that doesn’t mean he has to be a bad lay. I mean, look at Abel—he’s as uptight as they get, but once you get him in the sack he’s hot stuff.”  
  
“Tch.”  
  
“I’m just saying. He’s not ugly and he wants you to have a good time. Maybe just because that’s what gets him off, but who gives a shit about why?”  
  
Deimos let out a faint sigh, and Cain leaned closer. “Just give it another try, okay? I really need you to do this. I can’t do it myself, you know?”  
  
A snort of laughter escaped him at the thought, and Cain joined in. After a moment Deimos nodded.  
  
“That’s my boy!” Cain patted him on the shoulder, ignoring his reflexive flinch.  
  
\--  
  
If you’d asked him before yesterday, and if for some reason he had been inclined to answer, Deimos would have told you that he did rather like Praxis. Or at least that he found him amusing. He’d even had a few Praxis-flavored spicy thoughts, mostly on the subject of finding out how much teasing it would take before he snapped, and what he’d do when that happened.  
  
He’d gone to some trouble to find Praxis specifically, instead of grabbing a random relatively well-behaved fighter out of the hallway like Cain said. Mostly because the looks on all three of their faces were a priceless memory he would treasure forever, but partly out of curiosity, to see if that big stuffy dope had the balls to drop trou in front of his enemy and stick a dick in Cain’s precious perfect princess.  
  
He couldn’t help sneaking a look at Praxis’ face just before he came, which was probably a mistake because Praxis looked back at him, and it made him feel like he was sucking _Praxis_ instead of Abel and maybe that went the other way too, maybe that was why he said that crap afterwords, dear god.  
  
Now the very thought of Praxis made him want to spit. Now that Cain had _ordered_ him to fuck Praxis, as if he were just some whore. A whore who didn’t even get paid.  
  
He had no idea why the commanders wanted Cain to fuck Abel, but at least they were paying him to do it. Cain should give Deimos something in return, too. Maybe a kiss. Ha. Like that would ever happen.  
  
_It could happen,_ the hopeful, crazy part of his brain insisted. _Maybe when his mission is over. Maybe when he comes to his senses and sees that I’m the one who loves him best, the one who would do anything for him. Which_ , he sighed internally, _is why I need to do what he says now_.  
  
He didn’t have to like it, though. Deimos planned his next encounter to save as much time as possible, minimizing any opportunities for Praxis to get touchy-feely. He wasn’t going to kiss him if he could possibly help it. His stomach clenched at the thought of letting that big stupid face grow until it filled his entire world, and worse, mashing his own mouth against it.  
  
Having studied Praxis’ routine, he planned another ambush for the next afternoon. He set up in the same storeroom as before, taking off his jacket & boots and preparing his ass with appropriate amounts of lube. It was awkward trying to get himself properly relaxed without also getting too excited; he didn’t want to connect sexy thoughts with this job, but he also didn’t want to hurt himself on Praxis’ inconveniently huge dick. He considered taking his pants off, too—every second counted, especially in the beginning—but that might be too weird, especially if someone else saw him.  
  
Praxis showed up right on time—too predictable! But then again, maybe he’d been hoping for a repeat performance. Ugh. Deimos darted out, yanked him inside, and went straight for the ear that he could barely find in the darkness.  
  
“Deimos!” his target sputtered. “I—I really don’t understand why you’re doing—”  
  
Deimos shut him up with a rough hand over his mouth and another between his legs. After a moment Praxis managed to pull away the upper hand—allowing the lower to keep rubbing, how convenient—and gasped out, “At least let me turn on the light.”  
  
Deimos let out an irritated huff, but reached out to slap at the light switch. He instantly regretted it. Praxis’ big dumb face was there, too big, too close, looking vulnerable and almost frightened. He wanted to slap it. Praxis could break him in half without half trying—why did HE look like that? If anyone should be scared, it was Deimos, but did you see HIM quaking and stuttering? No. He fucking got the job done.  
  
He undid Praxis’ pants and pushed them down, then pushed him down too. Or at least he tried—Praxis stumbled a little but didn’t move. “Down!” Deimos hissed finally, pointing to the floor.  
  
Praxis babbled some bullshit that Deimos didn’t bother to listen to, but sat down, letting out a surprised noise when his bare ass hit the cold floor. Deimos was already slithering out of his own pants; if he were going to do this properly he might have turned it into a striptease, but he wasn’t going to do that for _Praxis._  
  
“I um—I don’t have any lube,” Praxis stammered. “If that’s what you were thinking of—”  
  
“Shut up,” Deimos told him. How many times did he have to say it? He knelt, straddling Praxis’ thighs, and gave his cock a few firm tugs—not that it needed it—before inching forward to position himself. He would rather turn his back so he didn’t have to look at that stupid oaf, but this gave him better control and more information.  
  
“Deimos, I really don’t think we should do this without lube—ohhh. Oh I—I guess you thought of that already. _Nnnh_.”  
  
He wanted to cover Praxis’ mouth again, but he needed both hands for this, at least until he made it all the way down. He let himself close his eyes, trying not to think too hard about the way it felt, intrusive and unyielding, impaling him, pinning him like a moth to the unsteady air. No. _He_ was controlling _it_. He could crush it if he wanted to. Or even cut it off. Run away with Praxis’ dick embedded in his ass, laughing at the look on his face. He flexed experimentally, and Praxis let out a deep, helpless gasp.  
  
Not that he actually _wanted_ to do the thing any harm. Praxis didn’t deserve this dick. It was solid, respectable, and upstanding, even impressive. The Encke of dicks. If it weren’t attached to Praxis, he would be more than happy to sit on it. Or bend over for it. Or…anyway. Praxis was soft—he should have a soft floppy dick. Although it was probably easier this way, because he didn’t have to spend time coaxing it awake.  
  
Deimos sat up, taking his weight off his hand. “Move,” he hissed, and let out an embarrassing squeak when Praxis obeyed.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Shut up.” He leaned forward and slipped his hands under Praxis’ shirt, digging his nails into his chest, and jerked his hips to make it clear he wanted to get on with it. After a moment Praxis began to push up too, and Deimos had to close his eyes again and bite his lip to keep himself quiet. He felt hands sliding up his thighs to his hips, and decided to tolerate this relatively inoffensive contact, but when one of them sneaked forward around his hipbone and slid downwards, he slapped it away as hard as he could.  
  
“Deimos…are you—sure you’re all right?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“No.” Before he could react, Praxis grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped them like a pancake, holding him down with the inexorable weight of his body. “I’m not going to shut up this time.”  
  
All Deimos could do was stare at him, mouth open and thighs trembling. He could feel his hair flung aside and sticking to the wrong parts of his face. He could also feel something stirring down below, and he prayed to all the gods that didn’t exist that Praxis wouldn’t notice. Maybe if he squeezed again—  
  
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Praxis rumbled. “You don’t seem to like me, and— _ah!_ —you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself, either.” Deimos’ dick chose that moment to twitch vigorously under the pressure, and Praxis lifted himself up partway to look down at it. “Oh. I guess you are now? I’m conf—”  
  
“Get off me,” Deimos snarled, face burning. “ _Get off get off get off_.”  
  
“Okay, okay! It’s just going to take a second to—gaah.”  
  
The moment Praxis tipped them onto their sides, Deimos shoved hard, pulling off him too quickly and hissing at the pain. He staggered to his feet, grabbing his pants and jamming his feet into them one by one. “Don’t look at me!” he rasped, breathing hard.  
  
Praxis averted his eyes. “Deimos, I’m sorry I upset you. I don’t understand what I did.”  
  
Deimos groped for his jacket and boots, slapped the access panel, and ran as fast as he could. Back in the relative safety of his room, he climbed up into his bunk and tucked the covers tightly under him so it felt like the pressure of a body, if not the weight. He closed his eyes, undid his pants and imagined Praxis not listening when he said stop, Praxis holding him down and taking command of his mouth, thrusting slowly into him until he whined and tossed his head and begged shamelessly for more. He let himself whimper out loud, fast and high, and imagined that Praxis could hear it, that everybody could hear it, everybody could see him but Praxis wouldn’t let any of the others have a turn, because he was— _no, wrong person_ but he couldn’t stop, he was arching up and letting himself shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.  
  
Wrong. Wrongwrongwrong. It was _Cain_ on top of him, Cain covering him with his long heavy body, menacing and protective all at once. It was _Cain_ biting his neck, making a scar that would show everyone Deimos was his forever, just his, no one else would ever touch him again. Safe. Treasured. Loved.  
  
Shaking, he wiped his hand on the sheet— _disgusting!_ the Phobos in his head scolded—and curled up on his side, pulling the covers tightly around him. Phobos wasn’t there, though, so he let the tears crawl down his face and seep into the pillow.  
  
\--  
  
Deimos didn’t see Praxis for three days—at least, not at close range. It would have been impossible to hide from each other entirely, unless one of them went to medical or hid in the air vents. Or was locked in the brig. Deimos was almost considering getting himself locked in the brig to get away from the agonizing tension that filled the room every time they saw each other, but Cain wouldn’t like that. He was already very disappointed in Deimos and had told him, coolly, to take a couple days off before he tried again.  
  
This time Deimos waited in an alcove, not a storeroom. He darted out too fast on Praxis’ blind side and Praxis whirled around and caught him by the arm, throwing him against the wall. The knife was out before he realized what he was doing, but Praxis didn’t seem to be afraid of it this time.  
  
“Deimos, what the hell?” he hissed.  
  
“S-sorry,” Deimos forced out, belatedly retracting the knife.  
  
Praxis released him. “You know, you _could_ just send me a message.”  
  
He shrugged, then remembered he was trying to be contrite. “Can we talk?”  
  
Suspicious pirate stare. “Actually talk?”  
  
Deimos nodded.  
  
Praxis sighed. “All right then. But no grabbing me. I’m not in the mood for that.” He followed Deimos into the alcove, then leaned against the wall and waited, arms folded. He was wearing his flight suit again and the shoulder pads just made him look even more huge and intimidating.  
  
Deimos swallowed. What was he going to say? He’d been hoping Praxis would understand that “talk” was a euphemism, and just come over and start doing something. _Why is he like this? No one else is like this. Everyone else would fucking know what they were supposed to do._ He was pretty sure even Ethos would know what to do. “I…am sorry. About the things I did before.”  
  
Praxis waited a moment, then nodded warily. “So…why did you do them?”  
  
Unfuckingbelievable. Wasn’t saying sorry enough? The goddamn cyclops had to torture him even more? “I—I—” _Think think think._ That single dark eye was boring into him.  
  
“I don’t like to be touched,” he blurted out. Fuck. Praxis would never believe that. Even though now that he thought about it, it was true. Sort of. He craved physical contact, but he didn’t like sex that much. It was exciting in concept, but in practice it almost never felt good. He preferred to get into charged or even dangerous situations and then slip away to think about them in private. He knew it would be different with Cain though, if Cain ever touched him like that. It would have to be.  
  
“You don’t like to be touched, but you want to have sex with me? How does that work?”  
  
“I can touch _you_ ,” he pointed out after a moment’s thought.  
  
“So you like to touch other people, but not be touched?”  
  
_Isn’t that what I just said, idiot?_ He nodded.  
  
Praxis seemed to be thinking. “So that’s why you didn’t want to come that first time, when I asked?”  
  
Deimos nodded again.  
  
“Does Cain know that?”  
  
His mouth fell open, and he quickly closed it again, shrugging.  
  
“Is that why he said that’s not what you’re here for?”  
  
He gave a slightly more expressive shrug, meaning: _maybe?_  
  
Praxis’ brows drew together. “Does he—do _they_ often use you as a sex toy like that?”  
  
The blood boiled up to his eyes and he was grabbing Praxis again, forgetting his promise. “ _I. Am not. A toy_.”  
  
“Whoa, Deimos, I know that. I know that, okay?”  
  
He let go, fighting to control his breath.  
  
“I’m just wondering if _he_ knows that.”  
  
“Я _убью_ тебя.”  
  
“Hey, put that away! I’m sorry, jeez. I’m sorry. Deimos.”  
  
_Why did I ever try to talk to this asshole? Why didn’t I cut off his dick that first time with Cain and the navigator? Why don’t I stab him every fucking time I fucking see him? I can’t do this. I have to leave. I will kill him if I don’t leave._  
  
“Deimos. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. Can we start over?”  
  
From ten feet away, he looked just as stabbable. Deimos bared his teeth. He wanted to carve up this turkey and serve him in the mess hall. He wanted to slice him into collops and toss them to the chickens. But…he had a mission. He didn’t want to move any closer, but if they were going to talk, if there was any way of salvaging this, he needed to. He forced his feet to move; with each step the floor sucked at them like grav boots.  
  
Praxis looked down at him, frowning slightly. “All right, so…you don’t like being touched, but you’re still interested in sex.” He paused as if for confirmation. “Can I ask why you don’t like being touched?”  
  
Deimos drew in a long, careful breath. “It feels bad.”  
  
“Bad how? Physically? Emotionally?”  
  
He shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”  
  
“Is it only sexual touching you don’t like? Or any touching?”  
  
“Any.”  
  
“Does it hurt? Do you want to be in control?”  
  
Deimos hadn’t had to speak so much in weeks, much less about crap like this. “It doesn’t hurt. It feels bad.” He sounded like such an idiot; Praxis was never going to fall for this. He needed to show a soft underbelly. “I don’t know how it’s going to feel. So it’s bad.” He looked up at Praxis, silently begging him to understand.       
  
“So it’s about…the uncertainty? Do you get nervous?”  
  
“I’m not _scared_.”  
  
“I didn’t say that! I didn’t mean it either.”  
  
He sighed. “I’m not afraid, it just feels bad.”  
  
“All right. Hmm. Can you touch yourself?”  
  
Deimos gave him a death glare.  
  
“I mean, just touch your own arm or something? In a casual way.”  
  
_How do you think I shower? Or get dressed?_ He pointedly jabbed a finger at the opposite wrist.  
  
“Does it feel bad when you do that? Or is it okay?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“So it doesn’t feel bad if you’re the one doing it. Which means it’s not something about the way it physically feels. ”  
  
“It—I don’t know. Sometimes.” Deimos was confused, and the fact that he'd never consciously thought about all this before didn't help. Sometimes it did feel bad when he touched himself, if he did it carelessly, or sometimes for no reason at all. And it felt good when Cain patted his shoulder, if he did it for long enough to let him relax from the initial flinch of surprise. But when Cain ruffled his hair, he had to hold down his treacherous hands that wanted to reach up to smooth it out again. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing himself at Cain, trying to twine around him like a vine, but what did he really want when he did that? He wanted Cain to stand still and let him, maybe wrap his arms around him, maybe kiss him on the mouth or the forehead, but to keep his body still and his hands in one place.  
  
“Hmm. I don’t think I can have sex with you if I’m not allowed to touch you. That first time was hot, don’t get me wrong, but in the long term it’s too frustrating. And it feels unfair. So maybe I’m not a good person for you to have sex with.”  
  
“But—” Shit. Shit. Everything was slipping away. Cain would be so disappointed in him. “You are. You—listen. You’re talking. You’re thinking.” _You care how I feel about it._  
  
Was that pity in his eye? Fuck him. “Deimos, anybody would do that.”  
  
They didn’t, but arguing about it was pointless. He gathered his strength. “I—I don’t want anybody. I want you.” Was he betraying Cain? Was he helping Cain? He couldn’t even tell anymore.  
  
Praxis was looking at his own feet. “I don’t know why you would—but never mind. I, um. I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“I can take it. If you really need to touch me.” Deimos reached for Praxis’ hand and pressed it to his own chest.  
  
“I don’t want you to just endure it! That’s terrible.” But he didn’t pull his hand away. “Deimos—does this feel bad?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“Do you think you could learn to like being touched? If we go really slowly and you tell me what feels good or bad?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Do you want to try it?”  
  
It sounded awkward and drawn-out and futile, but what other choice did he have? He nodded.  
  
Was Praxis blushing? “We should probably do this somewhere more comfortable. Is my room all right? Or do you want to use yours—no? Okay. My room then. I actually have to go somewhere now, but do you want to meet at…let’s see…2100? All right then. Um.” He blinked down at Deimos. “Can I have my hand back now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Я убью тебя" means "I will kill you." But you probably figured that out from context.
> 
> Weirdly, it took me until relatively late in the writing process to establish that Deimos had problems with being touched, even though it ended up as the entire theme of the story. Initially it was going to be more about his resentment and desire to get the job done quickly conflicting with Praxis' insistence on being touchy-feely and intimate; he was going to feel revolted and like his privacy was being invaded, but start liking it despite himself. I didn't realize he had sensory sensitivities until he did, when he spouted off what he at first thought was a lie (Deimos accidentally telling the truth while intending to lie is one of my favorite things, and it's going to be the basis for the next chapter of Return Error if I ever get around to finishing it).


	3. Chapter 3

Just before Praxis reached his room, Deimos silently slipped into place next to him. He must be too cool for greetings, which actually suited Praxis fine, because whatever he said always came out sounding wrong.  
  
They filed in and Praxis sat down on his bunk. Deimos just looked at him, and Praxis hurriedly patted the spot on his right. “I feel like I should offer you some tea or something,” he babbled. “But um, I don’t actually have any. Sorry.”  
  
Deimos shrugged and settled down, a little farther away than he would have liked, but still in reach.  
  
“Would you like some music?”  
  
One elegant eyebrow lifted.  
  
Praxis laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. “I’m not trying to be smooth. I just thought it might be relaxing.”  
  
“Mm hmm.” Deimos leaned toward him a little, the corner of his mouth tugging up. Praxis couldn’t believe how alluring he was. He wanted to brush aside the shadowy curtain of hair, curve his hand around that smooth cheek, pull him close and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. Instead, he turned aside to open his laptop and start the playlist he used when he woke up from nightmares and couldn’t get back to sleep.  
  
“So,” Praxis began, “I thought today we could start with the upper arm and shoulder, if that’s all right.” He glanced at Deimos for confirmation, and lifted his hand so slowly that Deimos gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, okay. I just didn’t want to startle you.”  
  
Deimos flashed him a grin and pulled his jacket halfway off to bare one shoulder, as if he were about to get a saucy flu shot. Praxis solemnly laid his hand on it, and they sat there for a moment. “Is that all right?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Was it all right when I touched you there before? Back…with the others?”  
  
Deimos shrugged, but his nose wrinkled.  
  
“Hmm. That sounds like no.”  
  
“It wasn’t torture,” he muttered.  
  
“I didn’t ask if it was torture, I asked if it felt all right.”  
  
Deimos smiled a little, and shook his head.  
  
“What was the difference between the two?”  
  
“I didn’t know you were going to do it.” He looked as if he weren’t finished, so Praxis waited. “It...felt different.”  
  
“Different how?”  
  
Deimos waved his hand rapidly in irritation, or possibly frustration.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Like that. Messy.”  
  
“Touching your shoulder felt…messy?”  
  
“Ugh!”  
  
“You mean…dirty?”  
  
“No! Messy.” He reached out and batted at Praxis’ hair, mussing it up.

Without thinking, Praxis reached up to smooth it down.

“Yes! Like that! See?”  
  
“Hmm. I didn’t think I was moving my hand around that much then.”  
  
“You weren’t. It wasn’t as messy as this.” He mussed Praxis’ hair again, and this time Praxis didn’t fix it. Deimos stared intently for a moment, then reached out and smoothed it down himself.  
  
“So moving too fast is bad?”  
  
Deimos seemed unsure.  
  
“What kind of fast moving would be good?”  
  
Deimos hooked a hand around the back of his neck and yanked him closer. Their breath puffed out against each others’ lips, only a few centimeters away.  
  
“Oh! Uh, okay. So grabbing is good?”  
  
Deimos released him and sat back. “If I can see you.”  
  
“How about if I do this?” Praxis lifted his hand, slowly although not as slowly as before, and gently petted Deimos’ shoulder and upper arm.  
  
Deimos appeared to be thinking. After a moment he nodded.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“It’s all right,” he rasped. “But it’s better if you do it harder.”  
  
“Like this?”  
  
“No!” Deimos batted his hand away. “Ugh.”  
  
“Too hard?”  
  
“Not hard enough!”  
  
“Uh…okay. How about this?” He increased the pressure to about halfway between petting and shoulder rub.  
  
“Mmmh,” Deimos nodded, his eyelids drifting shut.  
  
“So…there’s a pressure between soft and hard that’s bad, but hard and soft are both okay?”  
  
“You did it differently the middle time. More…side to side.”  
  
_What am I getting myself into_ , he thought. “So…I should do it up and down?”  
  
Deimos shook his head. “Inward. Different axis.”  
  
“Oh. Huh. All right.” He increased the pressure a little. “So…how hard would be too hard?”  
  
“Hmmh?”   
  
“There must be a pressure that’s too hard, right?”  
  
Deimos eyed him sideways, a wicked smile pulling up his lips.  
  
“Deimos!” he laughed. “Stop. So, if I took a hammer and chisel to you, that would be fine?”  
  
“Hmm,” he agreed.  
  
“Or a jackhammer?”  
  
This time the look was even more smoldering.  
  
Heat rose in Praxis' face, and he had to glance away. “Um so, uh, are backrubs okay then?”  
  
Deimos froze for a second, then wrinkled his nose.  
  
“Oh, huh. So what’s wrong with them?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
Praxis took a deep breath. Was he ever going to be able to understand all this, much less remember it? “I don’t think I get that one, because backrubs usually have several different moves with different levels of pressure—oh, is that it? You can’t predict what’s coming next?”  
  
Deimos thought for a long time. “Maybe. But mostly because they’re a lie.”  
  
“Huh? How?”  
  
“They say I care about you, but they mean I want to fuck you.”  
  
It took a moment for Praxis to collect his dangling jaw. “So—you’ve never had a normal backrub? Only from guys trying to get in your pants?”  
  
Deimos gave him a skeptical look.  
  
“My god. That’s tragic. Sorry. I just mean you’ve been severely deprived. SORRY. I just—never mind. Do you want one now? I know that’s not the part we’re working on today, but—or actually, how about just a shoulder rub? That would fit the criteria.”  
  
His eyes narrowed, but he nodded and turned his back, pulling off his jacket and tucking one foot up on the bunk.

Praxis scooted a little closer. “Okay, ready?” At Deimos’ nod, he placed his hands and began to knead the trapezius muscles. He dug in pretty hard, since that seemed to be the safer option.  
  
A faint squeak leaped out of Deimos’ throat.  
  
Praxis paused. “Is that okay?”  
  
“Don’t stop!” he creaked, head sagging forward.  
  
Praxis smiled. “Okay.” He was going to get a finger workout tonight; Deimos’ muscles might not look very big, but they felt like iron cables. It was worth it, though.  
  
A voice in his head reminded him that two days ago he wouldn’t have touched Deimos with a ten foot pole (at least not without wearing a full suit of armor), but he shrugged it off. Deimos hadn’t touched _him_ then either, or trusted him.  
  
_What am I doing_ , the voice persisted. _Is this a good idea? Is this what I want?_  
  
_Yes_ , he told it firmly. _Just look at him. Look how much he’s enjoying this. He’s so beautiful and alive and no one’s ever treated him right and I want to. And I want to touch him. We can always stop if it doesn’t work out._  
  
He hazarded a technically forbidden mission up the back of the neck, and Deimos hummed and leaned back a little. Praxis yearned to bury his face in that silky hair, to run his tongue along the curve of the delicate ear, to inhale the scent of his neck. But he needed Deimos to leave wanting more, even if they had to endure the same frustration. And anyway, he reminded himself, it wasn't time to touch those parts yet.  
  
The door hissed open and Ethos charged in. “Hi Praxis, I’m—oh! Sorry!” He tried to duck back out, but the door had already closed behind him and he bumped into it, startling himself again. He flailed wildly for the access panel, but Deimos turned to give him a sleepy, wicked smile.  
  
“Come here,” he whispered, beckoning.  
  
“Uh. Um. I, uh…this is…”  
  
“We’re not _doing_ anything,” Praxis took pity on him. “I mean, we’re just doing shoulder rubs. That’s the only thing on the agenda for tonight.”  
  
“Oh. Okay." Ethos relaxed. "Um…so did you…”  
  
Deimos waved him closer again, and this time Ethos tentatively wandered over to him. Deimos pointed to the floor, then turned back to Praxis and murmured, “You sit behind me.”  
  
Ethos looked at Praxis. Praxis shrugged.  
  
“Okay then,” said his navigator. He sat down on the floor with his back to the bunk, and Deimos firmly bracketed him with his legs ( _the jaws of the trap snap shut_ , Praxis thought). Praxis scooted around behind Deimos so he could trap him, too, and began to knead his shoulders again. It was a relief to face forward.  
  
“Oh, that’s nice,” Ethos sighed. “It’s so easy to forget that you’re tense but you really remember once you get into those muscles. Thanks for inviting me!”  
  
Of course Deimos didn’t answer. Praxis wanted to give Ethos some kind of acknowledgement, but he hadn’t been the one to invite him and he wasn’t the one giving him a shoulder rub, so he settled for a noncommittal grunt.    
  
“When you said it was the only thing on the agenda, did you actually mean you had an agenda, or was that just a figure of speech?”  
  
“An actual agenda,” said Praxis.  
  
“Like the homosexual agenda,” Ethos giggled nervously.  
  
Deimos let out a tiny huff that might have been a laugh.  
  
“That’s funny that you have a specific agenda for hanging out. I like it though. You know exactly what’s going to happen, so you don’t have to get nervous figuring it out.”  
  
Praxis grunted again. He had no idea what Deimos wanted him to say about their arrangement, and he wasn’t sure what _he_ wanted to say, either. Part of him wanted to confide in Ethos, but then again, he didn’t want to go into detail about the sex and who knew if he could be trusted to be discreet?  
  
“I didn’t know the two of you were um, hanging out. That’s neat. I’m just wondering though, because Praxis and Cain don’t get along. Is Cain okay with it?”  
  
Deimos froze for a moment, then shrugged.  
  
“He can’t see you shrugging,” Praxis murmured to Deimos. He’d been wondering the same thing, and more. Was he going to have to fight Cain in the halls over this? Would Deimos want him to keep it secret? What did it mean that Deimos was doing this? Could he be thinking of leaving Cain? What _was_ Cain to him in the first place?  
  
“He doesn’t care,” Deimos said finally. His voice was as rough and fragile as handmade paper, and Praxis had to almost physically restrain himself from leaning forward and hugging him. He settled for gently stroking his shoulders.  
  
After a moment Deimos tapped on one of his hands to tell him to rub hard again. The silence might have been comfortable with just the two of them, but Praxis suspected that Ethos might be feeling awkward after that answer, so he asked him what he was currently working on. Ethos chattered happily for 15 or 20 minutes, then reluctantly excused himself to go to a navigator gathering for which he was now late.  
  
Praxis felt a tug of disappointment when Deimos climbed to his feet, but Deimos pointed to the floor. “Your turn,” he rasped when Praxis looked confused. “Unless you want me to sit...like this.” He gripped Praxis by the shoulders and was suddenly straddling him, face only an inch or two away.  
  
“Um. I um—ordinarily I would be thrilled, but that is definitely not on our agenda for tonight.”  
  
“Our homosexual agenda,” Deimos whispered in his ear, wriggling a little.  
  
“Nope nope nope, definitely not on our agenda, which is not in any way sexual, at least not tonight.” Praxis scooped him up and deposited him on his feet like a misbehaving cat, then slid down to the floor himself.  
  
Deimos let out a little huff, but didn’t seem displeased. He sat down onto the bed, captured Praxis with his legs, and began to rub his shoulders. Praxis sighed and let his head loll. Ethos was right. You never knew just how tense you were until someone started working on you.  
  
“What do you want me to tell people about…this?” he asked after a few minutes.  
  
There was a slight pause in the kneading.  
  
“Did you just shrug?” Praxis asked suspiciously.  
  
“Tell them we’ve become Mormons and Ethos is our new husband.”  
  
“Haha. Brotherwives. But really. Can I tell people we’re dating? _Are_ we dating? I mean, we _are_ technically on a date, because we made a date to do this. I don’t mean to pressure you or get too serious too fast, I just want to know what you’re comfortable with in terms of…publicity.”  
  
Silence. _Please don't let me have ruined everything again. Please._ The seconds stretched on.  
  
“It’s none of their business,” Deimos rasped finally.  
  
“So I shouldn’t tell anyone?”  
  
Another, slightly shorter silence. “You can tell them if they ask.”  
  
“That seems fair.”  
  
“And you can tell Ethos.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
Deimos leaned down to whisper in his ear. “As long as you also tell him you put your dick in Abel’s mouth.”  
  
“DEIMOS.”  
  
Quiet, papery laughter tickled the back of his neck.  
  
Only later that night, after a decorous separation at a decent hour, did it occur to him that Deimos had never made it totally clear whether Cain knew.  
  
\--  
  
The next day was devoted to the back. “ _Not_ the butt,” Praxis said firmly, prying Deimos’ hands away with great difficulty.  
  
“ _You_ don’t mind being touched.”  
  
“That’s true, but I want to stay organized. And be fair.”  
  
“And not get too excited,” Deimos whispered in his ear, letting the tip of his tongue brush against the lobe.  
  
“Deimos! Stop it! You know we’re not doing ears yet! But yes.”  
  
Deimos smiled under his bangs, and sat down on the edge of the bunk, folding his hands in his lap.  
  
Praxis sat down next to him. “All right. I’m going to start with a stationary touch, like last time.”  
  
He nodded, and Praxis laid a hand first on the middle of his back, and then on various other places: shoulder blades, spine, waist, and lower back. “Can I put my arm around you?”  
  
Deimos looked startled, but nodded. Praxis extended his arm out behind, then brought it all in at once to avoid any “messy” brushing motions. Deimos’ body tensed, then relaxed. After a moment an arm snaked around his waist, and he felt a slight, warm pressure leaning against him.  
  
It was happening again. Feeling Deimos so close, already within the curve of his arm, tentative and curious and brave, made his heart overflow and his body incandesce with need. Praxis wanted to pull him onto his lap, devour him with hands and mouth, pull down those close-fitting trousers and slip a slow wet finger up into the tight grasping heat there. He wanted to make Deimos sweat and moan and rock up into his palm. _No_ , he told himself. _Breathe. We’ll get there. I know we will_.  
  
Deimos shifted a little closer and nestled his face against Praxis’ shoulder, breaking up his fevered fantasy. They sat like that for a few minutes, until Deimos finally pulled away and looked at him expectantly.  
  
“Oh! Yes. So, touching with movement.” They ran through various strokes at different pressures and speeds; as before, Deimos mostly preferred deeper pressure, although he liked very gentle, slow strokes on the small of the back, and said he “sometimes” liked faint tickling touch on the upper back. Despite his initial declaration, he actually seemed to be okay with most types of touch as long as he could predict what was going to happen and they weren't that one specific kind of light motion parallel to the skin. Praxis began to take mental notes, planning to write them down after Deimos left.  
  
Finally, they reached the backrub portion of the evening, or so Deimos told him. Deimos stretched out on the bunk, tucking the pillow under his face and looking back at Praxis with an expression that could have been relaxation, amusement, or challenge. Praxis allowed himself one glance at the round, provocative behind tilted ever-so-slightly up toward him, then took a deep breath and moved forward to dig the heels of his hands into the shoulder blades. He was rougher than the day before, almost vicious, and Deimos inhaled in surprise.  
  
“Is that too hard?” Praxis felt immediately guilty.  
  
Deimos shook his head. “But aim more this way,” he pointed. “ _Mmmh._ ”  
  
His strokes eventually gentled, slowing to a meditative pace. It wasn’t until he heard a slight wheeze that he realized Deimos had fallen asleep.

Praxis’ hands stilled, and he looked down at them, unsure what to do. After a moment he carefully climbed over Deimos, trying to avoid touching him too much, and squeezed in between him and the wall.

Deimos let out a sleepy little noise, brought up the opposite knee, and felt behind him for Praxis' arm, pulling it around him.

His chest was tight, and Praxis had to force himself to breathe. He lay still, holding close this precious, inexplicable, unpredictable warmth, this dangerous and fragile human who had for some reason trusted _him_. The light in his arms shone under the dimly glowing panels, and shone still in the darkness after Ethos slipped in and turned them off. It shone in the blank and hungry void of space that separated them from all they'd ever known, and for the first time since the battle he slept without dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The homosexual agenda” is probably an anachronism, but let’s pretend they revived it.
> 
> Is Praxis' EQ too high here? I don't know. Maybe he understands other weirdos better. :D


	4. Chapter 4

Deimos was, as usual during their project meetings, caught in an awkward position.  
  
On the one hand, he still resented that Cain had assigned him to service the enemy.    
  
On the other hand, Cain had, embarrassingly, been right, more right than he knew. He really _didn’t_ mind this assignment now. Once he’d stopped resenting Praxis as the instrument of his humiliation and started letting him try to please him, Deimos had become not only accustomed but addicted to his slow, patient, tempered strength. It was getting harder and harder to leave the room every night, and sometimes he failed, allowing himself to drift off in Praxis' anchoring arms.  
  
On the _other_ other hand, one must keep one’s dignity if at all possible. It wasn’t always possible when Cain got too close, but lately all the contact he was getting from Praxis fed him, kept him stronger, able to resist the smoky allure of Cain’s collar and rugged jaw and tender barbed ear.  
  
All in all, he decided, a remote but neutral demeanor was in order.  
  
Cain wasn’t buying it. “You gotta stop this sulking,” he told Deimos. “I don’t care if you do it when you’re with me, but if you’re like this with Praxis he’s gonna wonder why you’re even there.”  
  
Deimos hesitated, mouth open. It was still hard to form words around Cain. Around most people. And this time he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say.  
  
“I mean sure, it’s cool that you’re playing the twitchy virgin baby steps game, that’ll keep him busy for a while, but it’s gonna look suspicious if you don’t act like you’re at least interested. You haven’t even kissed him yet.”  
  
This last part was unfortunately true. It had occurred to Praxis on the third day that they had only been testing hand touches and not mouth touches, which would naturally feel different; but before Deimos could weigh in, Praxis had decided that touching the body with lips or tongue was more inherently sexual than touching it with the hands, and that they should tackle that after they’d established a body of knowledge concerning non-sexual touch.  
  
Deimos, not bothering to hide the half-erection that nudged up when Praxis mentioned licking his naked body, had told him wet touch felt better than dry touch, but Praxis just laughed and told him that he wasn’t going to fall for that, even if it was true. Later he relented a little and offered to schedule a day for kissing on the mouth; Deimos made a noncommittal noise and hadn’t brought it up again since.  
  
He was starting to feel like he should _earn_ the right to kiss Praxis, and he knew that he didn’t deserve it. Praxis was too good for him, too good for anyone on this ship except maybe Ethos. If Deimos were a better person he would step back and encourage them to get together, but he was a selfish wretch and anyway they didn’t seem interested in each other.  
  
“Eventually you _are_ going to have to have sex with him. You know we don’t get back to base for months, and no one wants to dick around that long with someone who won’t put out.”  
  
_But it’s_ Praxis _that won’t put out_ , Deimos thought. _Every day I try to tempt him and every day he resists. If it weren’t for all the backrubs I’d be going crazy. I’m going crazy anyway_.  
  
They’d worked their way through most major parts of the body, at least the parts that weren’t obviously sexual...although Deimos did his best to make them so, especially when it was his turn to touch Praxis.

Day three had been hands and wrists: Deimos tilting his head to let his hair brush against Praxis’ palm, threatening over and over to slip Praxis’ fingers into his mouth, testing his vigilance.  
  
Day four had been arms: Deimos tracing searing feather-light patterns from palm to inner elbow to make Praxis tense & stare in mute supplication like a dog at the dinner table. Deimos hated that kind of touch, but he was discovering that it could be a rush to administer it to someone who did want it. He was learning a surprising amount about his own responses, too; he’d tried so hard to ignore & deny inconvenient or troubling feelings that he’d never paid close conscious attention to what he actually felt and why. And, of course, he was learning about Praxis, because Praxis had his own peculiar feelings.  
  
Day five had been the feet: Deimos slyly wetting his finger before sliding it between Praxis’ toes, and nearly getting kicked in the face when Praxis yelped and jerked reflexively. As it turned out, the last time anyone had deliberately touched the soles of Praxis’ extremely ticklish feet had been in childhood, when his brothers would pile on him and go for the kill in a merry orgy of torture.  
  
They’d taken it easier on day six: ankles and calves, although he couldn’t help squeezing those mouthwatering muscles a little.  
  
Day seven: knees and thighs had been almost unbearable. Praxis kneeling at his feet, Deimos with one bare leg slung over his broad shoulder and one clothed leg with foot planted, waistband crumpled around his upper thigh and empty pant leg trailing on the floor. Praxis’ hand smoothing and warming the clothed knee, moving slowly up the thigh, covering the front and then the back, the outer and then the inner surfaces. His face resting against the bare knee, his lips unconsciously turning to press against it before remembering his resolution and turning away. Trailing one hungry finger up the naked thigh until it reached the hem of the boxer briefs and defiantly slipped under, feeling for the groove that led up the hip. Deimos trembling and breathing hard, flung back and spread out for Praxis, indecent evidence of his desire pushing up through his underwear, just inches away from the exploring hand. Warm breath soaking in through the fabric. The voice in his head whining _please. Please. Please_.  
  
For day eight: the sides, Praxis had agreed to let Deimos lie on top of him as long as he promised not to wriggle or bite or suck on anything, and it was simultaneously intoxicating and a profound relief to feel their bodies pressed together, harder than they could be when spooning later in the bunk. He’d rested his cheek against Praxis’ collarbone, closed his eyes, and drawn his fingers down the underside of his arm, into the hollow of his bizarrely un-ticklish armpit, along his solid, muscular ribcage, down the waist to the curve of the hipbone. Praxis had refused to lie on top of _him_ , no matter how much he tugged and teased, and dimly he’d wondered if it had something to do with what happened in the storeroom.  
  
Day nine: the midriff and belly. A sweet, uncomplicated day, although full of hands batting him away from regions immediately south. Even though those regions seemed to welcome his interest. He’d stared up close at the skin below Praxis’ navel, trying to analyze exactly where he’d have hair if it weren’t for the Alliance-issued depilatory soap, and what kind. The crazy, optimistic voice said, _maybe you’ll find out someday_.  
  
Day ten: the chest. A provocative region, although Praxis had decreed nipples off limits until they reached the sexual phase. He’d let Deimos lie on top of him again, though, and when on his turn Praxis stroked the middle of his chest, something about it felt like a ball of concentrated sunlight.  
  
Tonight, day eleven, would be the neck. Deimos wasn’t sure he wanted to be touched there by anything but Praxis’ mouth, unless it were a firm hand grabbing the back of his neck and roughly positioning him for—anyway. But he was excited at the prospect of getting at Praxis’ tender throat. ~~Maybe with his knife.~~  
  
Cain’s voice broke through his lurid reverie. “You listening, Myshonok?”  
  
Deimos nodded hurriedly.  
  
“All right then, tell me what you’re gonna do.”  
  
“I—” he began.  
  
Cain folded his arms and waited. The silence swelled like an ominous balloon, forcing the air out of the room, squeezing Deimos against the wall.

"I'm go-” The alarm cut him off, screaming crimson shards bursting through, and as he ran for the hangar all he felt was relief.


	5. Chapter 5

Red. Black. Redblack redblack redblack. The shrill rhythmic howl of the alarms, the pounding of feet through the hollow heart of the Sleipnir, blood rushing to that mouth where it vomits up death. The gates to hell. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. Abandon sentience, abandon soul, abandon self. You’re only a weapon now, and weapons don’t care about other weapons.  
  
A weapon doesn’t care what happens to it. It hops into the scabbard, clicking into place. It taps Tibby awake and unsheathes her claws, waiting for the other weapon to pet her until she purrs and stretches and springs out into the dark. It ignores the blood beating and boiling and skipping in its veins, because the only blood that matters is the white-hot ichor that sprays from the wounds of her prey.  
  
Tibby and her hungry sisters fan out, scanning for the bats that prowl above, the rats that skitter ahead, and the fish that swarm below. When she rolls onto her back, the bats become fish and the fish become bats, but they’re all good sport and they’re all tasty. She can only reach the rats though, so she has to dance and spin faster than all of them.  
  
Ravenous Tibby hurls herself at a big plump rat but her claws are slow today; it sprouts wings and soars away. She spits in frustration and spins up to follow it, twisting and turning until it’s a rat again. She shoots out her claws and this time she catches it, smashing it neatly in one blow.  
  
Two of its bat friends decide they’d like a little cat for breakfast and streak toward her. Tibby is alone but that means more for her; she and her sisters aren’t very good at sharing. She leads them toward the cloud of rat scraps so she can veer away after just a little taste, letting the bats get slapped in the face with full juicy mouthfuls. But one of them is ready and it veers with her, nipping at her tail. It’s a rat now, but the wrong kind, in the wrong position. Tibby has four claws, two on each side, and they only move forward; she is no Parthian. She needs to be behind the rat, and maybe a little above.  
  
She makes a sharp turn through a hail of gunfire and the rat swivels to face her new position. They trade swipes and charge head on. This is a game of chicken and the danger is not so much that neither will refuse to budge as that both of them will try to veer off in the same direction at the very last moment. Tibby ducks low instead of high and flips backwards (still careening onward rump-first) to slash at the bat’s belly as she passes under. Success! It’s not smashed but she has hamstrung it, and now she can reverse course and pick it off from behind as it limps and staggers.  
  
She’s just dispatched it when a blow from above slams into her spine.  
  
Red. Black. Wet. Sharp. Redblackredblackwhite. Sharp. Loud. Loud. Black. Whitewhitewhite. Loud. Hot. Empty. Burn. No. Breathe.  
  
Tibby limps back up, just in time to avoid the next onslaught. She can’t feel her claws and all she can do until she does is run. Run toward a sister and hope she’s feeling generous, or at least greedy.  
  
She’s in luck. Pharah peels herself away from Queenie’s side and leaps toward Tibby, spitting at the pursuing bat. The bat weaves and dodges, trying to stick to Tibby’s tail and feast without becoming meat itself. It fails. Pharah snaps it up in one bite and coasts along at Tibby’s flank as she hugs the edge of the field, trying to get herself in order.  
  
After a moment Tibby tests her claws again, one by one, and this time they work. She purrs thanks to Pharah and her sister swerves away to rejoin Queenie. Pharah likes Tibby but she’s always going to choose Queenie, the cruel sovereign of her heart.  
  
Tibby dives back into the fray but she’s tired, hurting, queasy, not so hungry now. She edges toward Merry and Tara’s territory, but they don’t seem to need her at the moment and she might distract them if she comes too close. She dutifully scans the field for unclaimed prey, and heads for the center, where they cluster.  
  
The bats and fish and rats begin to blur and wheel. Everything blurs. She shoots out her claws over and over and it becomes almost a rhythm, one of those complicated folk dance time signatures. They’re all in one vast complex dance together, the kind you can’t think about or you trip, the kind where your feet have to keep moving forever, the kind where you wear red shoes. The kind that make you bleed.  
  
Tibby stumbles. The rats keep slipping away, the fire is raining down like a hot shower. She doesn’t like it but that doesn’t matter. All the rats. Kill all the rats. She doesn’t want to kill anymore. Something’s wrong with her. She has a faulty part. She has a faulty heart.  
  
Her eyes are blurring again. She can’t see any rats, or bats or fish. But maybe that’s not a mistake, because Papa is calling, telling them to come home. Home, where Papa waits safe in his castle, safe in the dragon’s mouth, herding his little cats, whispering in their ears. They’re good daughters, they always listen to papa. Most of them come home.

—

White. White light. Too bright. Too loud. Cold heat. Hammering from all sides, rats again no it’s voices. They hurt more than rats. Mechanical shrieks and groans. Can’t make noise. Be still. No more striking. No more shooting. Stop the shooting. Shhh. Quiet. All quiet. Like it is inside. Empty. Quiet. Dead. Stop. Blood. Stop the noise.  
  
Cracks like an egg. Opens. He. There. Dead. No not dead, moving. Sometimes still moving. Dead but moving. The worst. No. Not him. I’m the dead one now. He’s shaking me because I’m the dead one. Calling. Some name. Get up. Nothing else to do. Up. Down. Fall. Hard. Floor. Hard. Smooth. Tugging. Up. Sit. Don’t barf. No. Bad manners. Sit. Roll over. Sit. Good boy. Breathe.  
  
Face. Voice. Bright light. Fingers. Three fingers. Today’s date. UN Secretary General. Commander. Bering. Wet. Hand eye NO. NO NO NO NO NO. Fall. No not fall. Catch. NO NO NO. Not the eye, he says. Not the eye. Oh. Forehead. Not the eye. Hand. Wet. Prodding. Dab. Pat.  
  
He. Where. Where is he. Who. Who indeed. Who is where. Look? Turn? There. He. Not him, not him either. This one. The live one. The one here. There. Ethos. Here. Alive. Close. Too close. Too loud. But alive. Up. Crate. Sit. Look alive. Try. Try to look alive. Don’t let them know. You’re dead. They burn the dead. They burned him. If I’m dead why can’t I see him? They burned him.  
  
Just sit. Sit. Look. Listen. Try. Can’t. He listens for me. He’s listening. He’ll take care of it. Of all those words. Until. I can. See them. Don’t want to see. Want to sleep. Soon. He says. I can sleep. 

—

Praxis woke for the second time, or the third, or the thousandth. All he did was wake up, wake up, wake up. Tired. He was tired. They don’t let you sleep much in med bay. Or else everyone would live there, hahaha, said the medic.  
  
It hurt. It all hurt. His brain, trying to burst through his eyes.  
  
He was hungry. But his stomach roiled. No real food for him. Chicken broth, juice, jello, ugh. He still had teeth. Didn’t he? He checked. Yes. All there. So tired. Sleep now? Sleep.  
  
Light. Touch. Him. There. Right there. No. No. Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t can I die instead.  
  
— 

Cain was there. _Cain was there_. His entire brain jolted awake. He couldn’t see Cain, but he could hear him. Behind the curtain.  
  
He sounded very casual, very chummy. Praxis felt around for a weapon. Cain would have one, and he wouldn’t care that Praxis didn’t. And no one would be able to see what he did behind the curtain, if he came in. Maybe he wouldn’t come in. Maybe he didn’t know Praxis was there. _Stay still. Stay quiet_.  
  
_No. I beat him once. I can do it again. Sit up. Be ready._  
  
The curtain swished aside, and Cain’s stupid grinning face peered in like an axe murderer in an old movie. “Well, look who’s awake!” he oozed, shouldering his way through. “If it isn’t the one-eyed wonder. PT was hours ago, sleepyhead.”  
  
“Good morning to you too, Cain.”  
  
“More like good afternoon! But you wouldn’t know about that.”  
  
“What do you want, Cain?”  
  
“Me? I don’t want anything. I’m just here to pay a visit to Odin, see how he’s doing. I thought I’d swing by your bed too though, since you probably don’t get many visitors, huh?” He laughed at his own joke.  
  
“How charitable of you.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s my community service, because I murdered so many Terons in the battle. You probably didn’t see that though, seeing as you were out cold for most of it.”  
  
“That’s funny. I distinctly remember doing a lot of shooting.”  
  
“Maybe it was in your dreams. Were you flying around butt naked without a ship by any chance?”  
  
“No, that’s in _your_ dreams.” His stomach heaved again, but something told him he needed to match Cain’s tone.  
  
Cain laughed a little too hard. “That’s cute, real cute. I’m flattered. But won’t Deimos be jealous when he finds out you’re flirting with other guys?”  
  
Praxis was surging up before he could think, grabbing Cain by the collar and yanking him off balance. “Let me make myself perfectly clear,” he announced into that nasty perforated ear. “I don’t care what you do with Abel anymore, as long as he’s all right with it. But if you don’t leave Deimos alone, I will take great pleasure in strangling you with your own entrails. Do you understand?”  
  
“What the f—”  
  
“Now GET OUT,” Praxis roared, and very deliberately smashed his water mug to the floor. The medic came running to drag Cain away, muttering about fighter listening comprehension nowadays and why didn’t anybody take recovery seriously.  
  
Praxis sat back and thought. He had a lot of thinking to do, and he figured he’d better start now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied, Praxis didn’t calm down. :D
> 
> I decided that um, they just fight freestyle in defensive battles. At least in surprise defensive battles. 
> 
> I feel like we’re missing an opportunity because all the guns on the starfighters point forward. I like to imagine that they can swivel a bit but why not have some rear-facing ones at least? It would give the fighters more to do.
> 
> You probably figured it out, but Tibby = Tiberius, Pharah = Pharaon, Queenie = Equinox, Merry = Meridian, Tara = Taurus, and Papa = CC on the Sleipnir.


	6. Chapter 6

Deimos craned around his navigator’s looming, bristling silhouette as inconspicuously as possible, looking for Cain, looking for Praxis. He knew someone hadn't come back but he hadn’t yet picked up on who; the battle had been a cyclone of harsh panicked voices flying in all directions, and he’d eventually turned off the channels to everything but Phobos and Command so he could focus. He'd been tempted to mute Phobos, too, but that would have been a terrible idea during a battle. It was a great idea for most other times, though. Especially right now.  
  
Phobos was throwing an especially vicious version of his usual post-battle fit, his delicate face pink and contorted with rage. “You almost KILLED us. You made us look SLOPPY. You made ME look sloppy. I couldn’t even CONCENTRATE on flying because I had to spend all my energy managing YOUR shit. I don’t care how _sloppy_ and _disgusting_ you are on your own time but don’t you DARE drag ME into it, you little—”  
  
There was Cain, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his shaggy, sweaty hair, a little matted from the helmet but already bouncing back. Dropping the mask of his mad public grin and letting a genuine goofy smile shine out. Sweeping his navigator up into his arms, twirling him around, steering him out of the crowd for what was probably going to be a session of exuberant post-battle fucking. Cain couldn’t be so reluctant as he pretended, could he? How could he possibly fake it all?  
  
Phobos followed his gaze. “Oh my GOD. You’re still looking at HIM, even when _I’m_ talking to you? Get a grip! He doesn’t want you and he never will! He’s too busy slobbering over that attention-hogging little slut and you know it. Oh don’t give me that look. You know I’m right.”  
  
Deimos decided he’d had enough. He turned and shouldered his way through the crowd, scanning for an extra-lofty dark head poking up out of the throng, or for Ethos’ exuberant cream-colored floof. Everyone was too tall and he couldn’t see. He needed to get higher up.  
  
He was hoisting himself up onto the wing of someone else’s ship when Phobos grabbed his arm. “Hey! You’re supposed to be on MY side! I’m supposed to be able to TRUST you! And now here you are making a SCENE, literally swinging around like a monkey, and ABANDONING me! Come back to the bunk RIGHT NOW, we need to plan how this is never going to happen again. God I need a drink.” He began to drag Deimos toward the exit.  
  
_There he is!_ No, just the same haircut. It was a fairly popular haircut, and over the last week or so he’d been getting little erotic jolts whenever he saw it in the hallway. Slow anonymous bodies crossed and recrossed his field of vision.  
  
There! There was Ethos! His back was mostly turned, but Deimos caught a glimpse of his face and it just looked tired, not weeping or devastated. He was nodding at something. A medic. The medic was looking down at someone else, someone sitting down. Deimos managed to break free for long enough to get a flash of Praxis, sitting on a crate with face turned up to listen, a little blood on his forehead but head wounds bleed even when they’re not serious, and it was just a little. He might need a stitch or two at most but he was all right. He was all right. It would be okay.  
  
He let Phobos recapture him and drag him off to their room. Once the medics were finished, once Phobos had spent his rage and gone off to fuck his unnatural crested dinosaur of a boyfriend, he could go see Praxis.  
  
\--  
  
It wasn’t Praxis who answered the door, though, but Ethos. Deimos blinked. After that first day they’d established a regular routine, and Ethos, now informed of an abridged version of their project, always stayed away during those couple of hours. Praxis had fretted a bit about the unfairness of this, but Ethos had just smiled and said he was happy to hang out with Athos.  
  
“Hi, Deimos,” Ethos greeted him. “Praxis isn’t here. He got a concussion in the battle and they want to keep him for observation overnight just to be sure. It’s not serious,” he added quickly. “At least they couldn’t find anything that looked bad on the scans. But they’re not letting anyone see him yet, because they want him to rest. And he’s not allowed to have electronics either. That’s standard procedure for concussions.”  
  
Deimos stood there, frozen.  
  
“Do you want to come in? Athos and I are hanging out here tonight, so we could catch you when you came by.”  
  
He numbly followed Ethos into the room, acknowledging Athos’ cheerful greeting with barely a flick of the eyes, and sat down on the edge of the bunk. It felt empty and lifeless. _I want Praxis_ , he thought. _I’m a stupid whiny baby and I want Praxis. I should be worried about him and I am, but I also just want him here with me_.  
  
Ethos and Athos lounged on a mattress on the floor, already chattering. “How did you think it went, Deimos?” Athos asked him.  
  
Deimos stared incredulously.  
  
“I mean, other than Praxis getting hurt.”  
  
He finally dredged up a couple of words. “Ask Phobos.”  
  
Ethos coughed. “Oh no, did he uh, get upset again? He gets so nervous about battles. I mean, we all do, but we all react differently to it.”  
  
“Yeah, didn’t you hear him shrieking?” Athos said. “I’m surprised the entire ship isn’t deaf yet. Or maybe I just hear it from closer up, because of Porthos.”  
  
“I guess I was too busy.”  
  
“What—” Deimos began. The words stuck in his ugly, stupid, rocky throat. “What happened?”  
  
Ethos frowned. “I’m not sure, actually. He was a little slow answering me earlier on in the battle and he wasn’t talking to me the way he does in the sims. Usually he’s kind of, you know, coaching me a little, the way he does. Not in a bad way, I think he just wants to be supportive.”  
  
“Backseat driving,” coughed Athos behind his hand.  
  
“ _Staaahp_ ,” Ethos swatted him affectionately. “You are bad.”  
  
Deimos did his best to murder Athos with his eyes. Ethos probably wouldn’t like it if he did it with his knife. His victim was only looking at Ethos, though, so the eye daggers bounced right off.  
  
“Anyway, I guess he was having an off day? We didn’t get a chance to talk about it because we went straight to the medic when we got back. So he was already not feeling very well for some reason, and then we got hit, and that must be when he hit his head. I didn’t know he hit his head until later though because he didn’t say anything about it. Maybe he got paralyzed because it was our first real battle and he was afraid something would happen to me? I mean, not actually paralyzed. He was still firing and stuff and he answered if I talked to him, mostly. And he warned me about enemy ships I didn’t see. Although the funny thing is that sometimes, when I looked, they weren’t there.”  
  
Deimos frowned.  
  
“Was that after he hit his head or before?” Athos asked.  
  
“I think after? But everything was happening so fast and I could be wrong. I don’t know,” he turned to Deimos. “Has he seemed any different to you the last day or so?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“You did see him last night, right? I didn’t get in til late.”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“And he seemed okay?”  
  
“Maybe he caught something,” Athos offered. “Like, some kind of space flu.”  
  
“Where would he catch flu? We’re on a ship in the middle of space. Everyone got checked out when they boarded.”  
  
“Well, logically, space should be where space flu comes from, right? Maybe it just floats around for thousands of years looking for something to land on. Or maybe it’s not actually a virus and it’s like, a thing that space just does to your brain. Like to your circadian rhythms or something.”  
  
“Shouldn’t we all have it then?”  
  
“Not everyone gets regular flu when they’re exposed to it. Some people are more vulnerable. OR, or maybe it’s some kind of new weapon the Terons have, that scrambles your brain, like jamming your comms.”  
  
“Yikes. I hope not.”  
  
Deimos stood up. He couldn’t listen to any more.  
  
“Oh no, are we upsetting you?” Athos peered up at him. “I’m sorry, I just get really punchy after a battle. Like WOOO, I’m alive, you know?”  
  
“Praxis is going to be fine,” Ethos assured him. “It’s just that his brain needs a rest right now.”  
  
Deimos nodded stiffly. “I need to walk,” he forced out. “Could I come back later?”  
  
“Sure! Just knock.”  
  
“We won’t do anything too loud,” Athos added, and Ethos smacked him again.  
  
Deimos sidled out the door and stalked through the halls toward the med bay. Surely it wouldn’t hurt Praxis to go check up on him? Maybe sit with him a little? It wasn’t like he would make him talk.  
  
He waited until no one was looking, then slipped into the med bay. Praxis wasn’t in any of the open beds, but he saw a couple of curtained-off areas in the corner, and that seemed like a likely place to put someone who needed to rest his brain. He peeked through the gaps in the curtains and found Praxis in the second bed.  
  
Praxis looked terrible. Not ugly, of course, because he was constitutionally incapable of being anything but gorgeous, but exhausted and drawn and miserable. He seemed to be asleep, but his brows were drawn down and his eye darted under its lids like a trapped fish. A small piece of white tape sat just under his hairline, half-hidden by his bangs.  
  
Deimos slid in and stood over him, considering. There was nowhere to sit but the bed, and sitting on the bed might wake him up. There was the floor, but there was only a tiny slice of it free and then he would be too far down to see Praxis well, and if Praxis woke up on his own he might realize someone was on the floor but not realize it was Deimos, and maybe think it was an enemy and get scared. He’d just have to stand.  
  
Praxis flinched a little and jerked his head, letting out a sad pained noise.  
  
Deimos caught his breath and waited.    
  
He whimpered again, and his brow tightened even more. It almost sounded like he was trying to say something, or move, but didn’t know how to make his body do it. His forehead convulsed once, digging a painful-looking crease.  
  
Without thinking, Deimos reached out to smooth it.  
  
Praxis jerked upright with a shout. His eye opened and fought to focus, and his head reeled.  
  
_Sorry,_ Deimos mouthed in silent terror.  
  
Praxis’ eye finally lit on Deimos. He didn’t look happy to see him, though. He looked shocked.  
  
Deimos paused, offending hand still half-up.  
  
“Can’t—” Praxis choked out, and suddenly turned aside and retched.  
  
A large white body barreled through the curtains, shoving Deimos aside, grabbing a bedpan and holding it under Praxis’ head. “Get out of here,” the medic hissed, glancing back at Deimos. “I don’t know where you came from but he is NOT allowed to have visitors right now.”  
  
Deimos fled.

\--

The last thing he wanted to do was see anyone, but for some reason his feet took him back to Praxis’ room. Ethos answered again, looking flushed and somewhat disheveled, and let him in. _How can they do that at a time like this_ , he thought. And then, _who am I kidding. If Phobos were the one in med bay I would be trying to get Praxis naked right now. Because I’m a selfish shithead who lies to him and tries to push him into doing more than he wants to do. It wasn’t even his idea to start this. I grabbed him out of the hallway. I don’t even deserve to be in this room._  
  
He sat down on the bunk again, staring into space.  
  
“How was your walk?” Athos asked.  
  
Deimos looked down.  
  
“Did they let you see him?”  
  
He flinched. Was he that obvious? “Not _let_ ,” he croaked. There were too many concerned eyes on him.  
  
“How was he?”  
  
Deimos shook his head, then gave up entirely and curled up on his side, pulling the pillow close and inhaling Praxis’ scent. He could hear the two of them murmuring to each other, and the sound was soothing but it hurt.  
  
A warm shadow fell over him. “Deimos,” Ethos’ voice said. “We’re all pretty tired, so I was thinking about going to bed early tonight. Do you want to stay over?”  
  
He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes.  
  
“Why don’t you take your boots off? And then you can get under the covers. That should be more comfortable.”  
  
Deimos didn’t want to move, but somehow Ethos’ gentle concern commanded obedience. He shuffled his way through the motions and let Ethos tuck him in, blinking hazily at the other two as Athos took Ethos’ hands and they swayed toward each other for a brief but unhurried goodnight kiss.  
  
Athos waved goodbye and slipped out the door, and Deimos closed his eyes again, the impact of that sweet, easy kiss hitting him like a truck. He was never going to have that with Praxis, because they were never going to kiss. Once Praxis got better, he was going to tell him the truth, and then Praxis would never want to touch him again.  
  
\--

Deimos didn’t show up for his project meeting the next morning. He allowed Cain to slide into position next to him during morning formation and breakfast and PT, but didn’t speak to him or allow Cain to pull him aside to speak privately. He stopped following Abel, and deleted Cain’s messages without reading them.  
  
Cain was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it—in public at least—because acting too angry would make it obvious to the other fighters that he couldn’t control Deimos, and that his threat level had effectively been halved. When he wasn’t in his room, Deimos was careful to stay in public places with at least a few people around, and to avoid standing near exits or walking near the walls in the hallway where it would be easier to leap out of hiding and grab him. He didn’t let anyone into his room without hearing their voice first, and he was very careful leaving it. He didn’t speak to Ethos or Athos, either, although he could feel their concerned eyes on him from time to time.  
  
After a couple of days, Cain seemed to have become resigned to this new state of affairs, and accepted the outer appearance of Deimos’ support in lieu of actual service. He no doubt understood that it was to both their advantages to pretend an alliance even if they no longer had one.  
  
On the evening of the third day, there was a knock at the door. Deimos frowned. Phobos wasn’t there, so it shouldn’t be Porthos. Could it be Ethos checking up on him? Or Cain, trying again? Or—he jumped up and flicked on the intercom; it was loud and staticky enough that there was no need for him to speak to let the other person know it was on.  
  
“Hello? Deimos? It’s me. Um. Praxis. Are you there?” His voice was faint and tinny, but it was him, it was him him him. Deimos had almost forgotten that Praxis hadn’t already rejected him, so hard had he tried to pull away and move past it. Acid terror filled his every vein, and it took all his strength to lift his hand to the access panel.  
  
The door hissed open, and there he was, filling the entire empty world. “Cain told me to fuck you,” Deimos blurted out, and flinched away reflexively.  
  
Praxis just stood there, his brows drawn together, looking dismayed but not, this time, shocked. “Do I really scare you that much?”  
  
Deimos stared at him open-mouthed. After a moment he shook his head.  
  
“Can I come in? I promise I won’t do anything scary.”  
  
Deimos backed into the room, inclining his head a little. They sat down on the bunk, staring at the floor, saying nothing.  
  
“I already knew about Cain,” Praxis said after a moment. “In case you were wondering why I didn’t throw a fit.”  
  
His eyes widened. “How long?”  
  
“Well, I had some…suspicions for a while. I didn’t want them to be true, but they kept adding up. The way he used you back there with Abel. The way you acted in the storeroom, like you were angry. It didn’t make sense that you would be angry if you had really wanted to have sex with me, even with the touch thing. You’d never acted angry at me before. And then you said Cain didn’t care that we were dating, but that didn’t make any sense. He’s the type who has to control everything. You dating someone he’s at odds with would be a security risk—unless he had told you to do it in the first place. Also, he was watching us, the few times we were together in public. He didn’t look angry about it, just calculating, and every once in a while when you weren’t around he’d make some half-chummy, insulting joke to me about it. I got the feeling that he was trying to provoke me into defending your honor.  
  
“I tried ignoring it for a few days, but it just bothered me more the further we went and the more invested I got in being with you. I always had that tiny little voice inside nagging at me, asking if you actually liked what we were doing, even though you seemed really enthusiastic on our dates.”  
  
“I was,” Deimos croaked. He wanted to cry, but his eyes were dry.  
  
“I know. I figured that out later. If you were such a good actor that you could fake all your responses to what we were doing, why wouldn’t you have acted that way from the beginning? It made more sense that you weren’t acting, and your feelings just changed after we talked that first time. Coincidentally after I made it clear that I cared about how you felt. I think you even said something about it at the time.”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Anyway, I eventually couldn’t stand not knowing. So I decided to start following Cain. I didn’t want to follow _you_ , because that felt creepy and like a breach of trust, but I figured that if you weren’t conspiring with him I wouldn’t be finding out anything about you.”  
  
Deimos closed his eyes. It would be over soon. He had to remember that.  
  
“So I finally caught him meeting with you just before the battle. Oh, that was another thing. He was complaining about how apathetic and listless you were, and you were pretty quiet and withdrawn with him, but that’s nothing like how you are with me. Except right now, I guess.”  
  
His eyes flew open, and he shook his head frantically.  
  
“Quiet, I mean. I didn’t mean to imply you were uncaring.”  
  
Deimos let out his breath, as quietly as possible.  
  
“So uh, then the battle happened, and I um—it didn’t go very well, as you probably heard.”  
  
“It’s my fault then,” Deimos whispered. “That you got hurt.” And that must be why the sight of him revolted Praxis so much that he threw up in the med bay, and still couldn’t look at him now.  
  
Praxis lifted his hand to his forehead, looking oddly embarrassed. “Oh, this is nothing. They didn’t even have to stitch it. I uh, I know they probably told you I had a concussion, and that’s what they thought at first, but uh…it turns out I didn’t. I was just…not very good at coping with feelings. About you or about…battles in general. Because of last time.”  
  
Deimos searched his face, and for the first time, their eyes met for more than a furtive fraction of a second.  
  
“I get headaches a lot when I’m stressed. And stomach problems, sometimes. One of the medics told me that can happen when you don’t want to feel your feelings, as feelings, I mean. They come out some other way. So I was acting confused and dizzy and had a headache and a cut on my head, and they just assumed I had a concussion. It took me a long time to calm down. And then I had to think really hard for a while. After I did that I felt much better, and I was able to talk to them and tell them what was going on. So they did some more scans and finally agreed to let me go. I’m still not supposed to fly or do intense exercise for a week or two, but I think that’s just in case.”  
  
Deimos swallowed. “I’m glad you’re not hurt badly. But…I still hurt you.”  
  
Praxis glanced over at him again. “Yeah. You did. But I shouldn’t have gone up when I was in that state. That’s on me. When I did it I wasn’t thinking about how it endangered Ethos as well as me. That’s what I should have been thinking of most right then.” He rubbed his forehead just over the eyepatch. “It’s so easy to feel alone up there.”  
  
_And down here_ , thought Deimos. Very slowly and tentatively, he laid a hand on Praxis’ shoulder.  
  
Praxis froze. “I, um—so. I don’t know what else to say. I know you weren’t lying about everything, but I also don’t know how to tell which parts are true. For sure. You did tell me about Cain when I first came in here, which is—encouraging, but he could have told you I knew.”  
  
“You talked to Cain? What did he say?”  
  
“Well, he came to see me in med bay—although he made sure to talk to someone else first so it looked like he wasn’t there to see me—taunted me a little, boasted about his shooting, and eventually slipped you into the conversation. It sounded like he was fishing for information.”  
  
“When was this?”  
  
“Yesterday. Afternoon, he said.”  
  
Deimos let himself smile a little.  
  
“Why, what does that mean?”  
  
“I stopped talking to him. After the battle.”  
  
“Oh.” Praxis considered. “Wow. So he was probably afraid you might have told me, and wanted to feel me out about it.”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Anyway,” Praxis continued, “I told him I didn’t care what he did with Abel, but I’d personally murder him if he didn’t leave you alone.”  
  
Deimos’ hand flew to his mouth.  
  
“Now that I think of it, that was kind of a dick move. I’m sorry. It’s up to you whether you talk to him or not. Obviously.”  
  
He beamed.  
  
Praxis looked at him thoughtfully. “I think I believe you that he didn't tell you I knew. The thing that’s really worrying me, though, is that it sounds like I’m the first person who’s ever cared about what you wanted. If we’re going to be together I want you to want _me_ , personally, not just anyone who treats you with basic human respect. You could find dozens of guys who would do that, and that’s just here on the Sleipnir.”  
  
“I—” His words slipped away again, deeper into the old dry well.  
  
“You don’t have to answer that. It’s not fair to blame you for being affected by the shitty people you’ve known. But it’s also not fair to either of us if you date me looking for the bare minimum. You get someone you don’t really want and I get someone who doesn’t really want me. Eventually you would realize that, and then you’d have to choose between hurting me or hurting yourself.”  
   
Deimos gripped his arm. “You are _not_ the bare minimum,” he whispered. “You’re…everything.”  
  
Praxis’ eyes dropped. Was he blushing? “B-but—” he stammered. “How do you know that’s not just about me treating you like a real person?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to separate that from the rest of you.”  
  
Praxis inhaled.  
  
“But I know being with you makes me happy. And you seem happy too. Can’t we just try to be happy together?”  
  
Praxis stared fiercely at him for a full ten seconds, then burst out laughing. “I think you’re smarter than I am.”  
  
“Of course I am.”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Deimos whirled around and leaped on him, pushing him back onto the bed and dipping down until their lips almost touched. “See? Proof.”  
  
Praxis smiled. “Does that mean you want the next session to be kissing on the mouth?”  
  
—  
  
“Are you ready?” Deimos asked later that night. He was straddling Praxis again, gripping those magnificent thighs with his own and holding him firmly by the shoulders. Praxis’ hands were warm and supportive on his back.  
  
Praxis nodded and drifted forward slightly, lips parting a little.  
  
Deimos closed the distance between them, relishing the sudden luscious feel of his mouth, resolving never to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Either Athos is bitchier in private or he’s learned that it makes Ethos giggle. Who knew?
> 
> Was it super obvious in Chapter 5 that Praxis knew? I feel like it was but it's hard to tell from inside my own head. I wanted to leave clues but not have it be super obvious.
> 
> Thanks to TheLoyalMouse for the suggestion that something happen to Praxis; I had been complaining that I didn’t know how Praxis was going to forgive Deimos once he found out, and I didn’t want to do the standard-issue “deceiver is injured or captured thus forcing deceivee to face what deceiver really means to them.”
> 
> Thanks also to the denizens of the Starfighter Discord, who helped me with a bunch of things and were patient with all my whining and teasing while I was writing this. :D


End file.
